


Better Than Okay

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Grey-Asexual Peter Hale, M/M, Negotiations, Nipple Play, Orgasm Control, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Safewords, Sensation Play, Sex-Neutral, Sub Stiles, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: "You need this.”It's very deliberately not a question, and it makes the melted muscles in his lower back tighten. The hand in his hair keeps his head on Peter's thigh. “Depends on what 'this’ you're talking about,” he hedges.Peter's fingers suddenly curl into a fist, dragging his head up and baring his throat. He can't help his moan, or the way he's half-hard in his pants. Peter's gaze slides, slow and predatory, up his throat to his face. “This. You need me to put you on your knees, or tie you down, spank you, make you submit.” Peter smirks, and it shouldn't be hot, but it is. “You think I can't recognize a submissive when I kiss one, sweetheart?”





	Better Than Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Dena for handholding and helping me through the frequent bouts of writer’s block, and for beta reading. Thanks to Belle and Greenie for pre-reading and cheerleading, and to moonlightcalls, ladypigswagon, and red_crate for enthusiastically screaming YES, DO IT, DO THE THING when I floated the idea. 
> 
> This one is for all my kinky aces! (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!) 
> 
> Happy (slightly belated) V-day, everyone! *throws heart-shaped confetti*

 

 

Stiles locks the bathroom door and takes a deep breath, trying to will his dick down. _Not here for that_ , he reminds himself. _Peter's ace_. It takes a few minutes and some cold water splashed on his face, but he manages, and hopes the lingering scent of arousal isn't _too_ noticeable.

(Or, if it is, that Peter'll be nice enough not to tease him about it. He's trying, here, but Peter likes seeing him flustered, and he hasn't had sex in months. At this point, he's ready to crawl out of his skin.)

He cracks the window as he leaves the bathroom, hoping the fresh air will dispel any lingering eau d’erection. He starts heading back to the living room, where he left his boyfriend, but turns around when he hears, “In here,” from Peter's bedroom.

Which is just great, really. It's not like he ran away from their makeout session to get a handle on himself. Metaphorically.

His train of thought stutters and dies when he sees that Peter's sitting on the edge of the bed, thighs spread obscenely wide and feet framing a pillow on the floor. Stiles licks his lips. “Is that . . .”

Peter nods. “Why don't you come kneel, baby? We need to have a talk.”

And yeah, that doesn't sound ominous _at all_ , but Stiles hasn't been under in the better part of a year, and doesn't have the willpower to resist. So he nods wordlessly, crossing the room to sink to his knees. As he settles on his calves, he feels a hand on his neck, guiding his head to rest on Peter's thigh, and tension leaks out of him like a sieve. Peter doesn't press, just quietly cards a hand through his hair.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he sighs, knowing he has to bite the metaphorical bullet and ask what’s going on. “What did you want to talk about?”

“You need this.”

It's very deliberately not a question, and it makes the melted muscles in his lower back tighten. The hand in his hair keeps his head on Peter's thigh. “Depends on what 'this’ you're talking about,” he hedges.

Peter's fingers suddenly curl into a fist, dragging his head up and baring his throat. He can't help his moan, or the way he's half-hard in his pants. Peter's gaze slides, slow and predatory, up his throat to his face. “This. You need me to put you on your knees, or tie you down, spank you, make you submit.” Peter smirks, and it shouldn't be hot, but it is. “You think I can't recognize a submissive when I kiss one, sweetheart?”

And fuck, _fuck_ , he should've known. “I didn't think you'd—I can—you don't—”

“Shh, you're alright. I've got you. Deep breaths.”

He closes his eyes and lets Peter talk him down from his impending freak out. Once his heart isn't trying to make a bid for freedom, he swallows. “I'm sorry. I—I know you're ace. I was trying not to push for something I knew you didn't want.”

Peter snorts, cupping his face with both hands. “Sweetheart, part of the reason we're having this discussion is that you seem to be under the impression that you can coerce me into doing something I don't want to. Which is ridiculous.”

“It’s called being consid—”

“Making assumptions about our relationship isn’t considerate, darling.”

It pulls him up short. He didn’t mean it like that. “I didn’t—”

“I know.” Peter’s thumb smooths over his lips, shushing him. “But we’re discussing it now, because we need to.”

He swallows and nods, because there really isn’t any other appropriate response to that.

Peter lets go of him, and leans back a little. “So, let’s start again. You need this.”

He closes his eyes. “I’m not trying to be an asshole—or deny it, even—but what are you talking about exactly when you say ‘this’?”

Peter’s fingers brush though his hair. “Sex. Submission. A blend of the two, I suspect.”

He chews the inside of his cheek until the urge to _deny, deny, deny_ is a little more manageable. “Yeah,” he sighs.

“Sound less enthused, I dare you.”

Peter’s tone is playful, but it still makes his shoulders hunch. He doesn’t speak, has no idea what to say. Peter makes a small, disgruntled sound. “Moon sakes, you’re in a state. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He nuzzles his cheek against Peter’s thigh, not wanting to look up. “I figured it would be a deal-breaker. You’re ace, and don’t seem the type to share.”

Peter’s hand finds the back of his neck, and squeezes reassuringly. “So, what? You decided to just go without and never mention it?”

“Basically?”

The hand at his nape squeezes again, tighter this time. “I take it back. You can’t be the clever one after doing something this stupid.”

“I’m sorry.” And he is. He couldn’t name a specific reason why if asked, but he is. Stiles feels like he’s _made_ of regret right now.

“I need you to look at me, sweetheart.” He reluctantly lifts his head and makes eye contact. Peter gives an approving nod. “I’m on the ace spectrum, yes. But I’m not sex-repulsed. I enjoy kink, both sexual and non-sexual, and have for years. I may not be particularly interested in sex for its’ own sake most of the time, but it pleases me and my more animal instincts to provide for a partner. To smell you satisfied and covered in my scent.”

Peter pauses, and Stiles nods his understanding. He’s a little blown away, but mostly by the fact that _he can keep Peter_.

“So what this means, sweet boy, is that you and I need to talk about likes and dislikes, limits.”

Stiles doesn't know where to start. “Uh, hard limits are pretty standard, I think? No permanent damage, no scat, watersports, blood play, needles.”

Peter's nodding like he expected that. “Just to be clear, is broken skin something I need to be very careful to avoid? It can happen in the course of regular play, even when we're careful.”

Stiles's mouth goes a little dry at the thought of what might accidentally break his skin, and he has to give himself a little shake to get back on track. “I mean, I don't know what you're into, exactly, but I know flogging can accidentally open the skin, and things like that are fine. Though,” he looks at Peter's face, remembering _werewolf_ , “I'd rather any marks from your claws be shallow and deliberate, if you get what I mean.”

Peter chuckles, and Stiles doesn't think he's imagining the pleased quality of it. “Don't worry, darling. I know how to control myself, and how fragile you are. You won't be the first human sub I've played with.”

And it's not that he doubted Peter, but hearing that is still reassuring in a way that's hard to put into words. “So, uh. Hard limits for you?”

Peter pets his hair absently for a long moment before speaking. “Fire play and wax play are out. So’s violet wand. I won't use incense or oil diffusers—they tend to be overwhelming, and can cover up scents that are more important. Massage is fine, but I use coconut oil for that. It doesn't have a strong scent.”

Stiles nods. All of that makes sense, given who he's talking to. “Should I, uh—soft limits?”

Peter raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “That is generally how this works, yes. Though I'm going to ask you to write this down, so I have it to refer to. For now, I need to know your thoughts on sensation play. I want to get you under, get a feel for you, and I’ve gotten the impression that making you wait isn't a good idea.”

A quiver starts in his belly at the thought of subbing for Peter right here, right now. “Please?”

Peter squeezes the back of his neck again. “I know, baby. I know you want it, but I need you to answer me first. Sensation play?”

He swallows, and tries to focus. “I like it, yeah. Hot, cold, soft, rough. Usually isn't intense enough to get me there unless there's something else, too—a blindfold, or bondage, maybe both.”

A hungry look comes over Peter's face. “While I suspect that sensation play alone will be enough, given your current state, I'd love to tie you. Rope bondage alright?”

Stiles moans, cock jerking in his jeans. Peter huffs a laugh. “That's a 'yes’. Alright, baby. Up.”

But, rather than waiting for Stiles to obey, Peter manhandles him upright and onto the bed. It’s hotter than it has any right to be, and Stiles is totally blaming the wet spot in his boxers on how long it’s been since he last got laid. He goes to say as much—because werewolf noses means he has no secrets—but then he’s being kissed, and everything is _PeterPeterPeter_ , warm weight holding him down and stubble rasping against his chin and hips rocking against his. It makes him whimper, and he gets a tongue in his mouth for it.

He can feel himself dipping already, and he whines at the loss when Peter pulls away. Peter presses a quick kiss to his mouth before getting up. “I want you to strip for me, sweet boy. I have to get a few things, and I expect you naked and spread-eagle when I get back.”

Anticipation makes him shiver. “Yes, sir.”

A hungry smile curves across Peter’s mouth as his thumb brushes Stiles's throat. “Good boy.”

And then he leaves, and Stiles flails out of his clothes. He’s not sure what to do with them, after—Peter doesn’t seem like the kind of Dom who’d insist he fold them, but also doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d appreciate having them strewn across the floor. In the end, he leaves them in a semi-neat pile beside the bed. He's blushing, staring at the ceiling when Peter returns.

He squirms as blue eyes slide over him, fighting the urge to cover himself. He hasn't been unclothed in front of Peter before, unless the time Peter and Derek had him shirtless to check his ribs counts. But that was different. Less intimate, more clinical, for all that he'd appreciated the supernaturally-warm hands on his bruised, aching body.

“Pretty,” Peter rasps, nodding. Stiles resists the impulse to preen as Peter crosses the room to set two bowls on the nightstand. Stiles cranes his neck to watch, but doesn't get up. He doesn't have permission—and, while he isn’t sure he needs it, he doesn’t want to take the risk. It means he can see Peter opening the night table drawer, but not what joins the bowls.

The next thing Peter pulls out is the rope, and he holds it up where Stiles can see it. “Just your wrists, or ankles, too?”

The muscles in his thighs clench at the thought of being tied spread-eagle, held open no matter how hard he fights. He knows better than to think Peter would tie him ineffectually. “Both.”

Peter hums, pleased, and sets to work unwinding the rope from its bundle. He doesn’t bind Stiles with a complicated tie, but he doesn’t rush, either—checking to make sure the tension’s right and that Stiles is securely bound to the headboard and bedframe. After, he stands back, smiling as Stiles tugs at his bindings.

They hold.

He sighs, melting into the bed, and Peter chuckles before feathering fingertips across his chest. His breath hitches and he arches as much as he can—it tingles, and he wants more. Peter pulls away, and he opens his eyes—when did he close them?—in time to see Peter wring out a washcloth over one of the bowls. He’s opening his mouth to ask what it’s for when Peter drapes it over his cock and he’s suddenly choking on air.

It’s wet, and hot enough to ride the edge of uncomfortable, and he squirms, the chafe of the rope at his wrists and ankles only making his need to come worse. “Peter,” he whines.

“Right here, baby. Give me a colour.”

It takes him a moment to understand what Peter’s asking for—things are already cloudy, he’s going down like a ton of bricks, and he’d maybe be concerned about that if it didn’t feel so fucking good—but once he does, he feels dumb for not realizing. Stoplights. “Green, sir.”

He’s rewarded with a hand petting his side, just firm enough not to tickle. “Good boy. That changes, I need you to tell me. Can you do that for me, Stiles?”

He nods. “Yes, sir.”

Peter dips his chin, pleased. “Good. I’m going to play now, and I want you to hold off on coming until I say so. Alright?”

Stiles drops his head back onto the bed, moaning something close to “yes”. He’s totally on-board. “I will get to come, though, right?”

Peter smirks, dragging his nails across Stiles’s hipbone. “Of course, sweetheart. This is all about getting to know you. There aren’t any rules or punishments, so nothing you do tonight is wrong. All I need from you is your pleasure, and your words. But you’ve already proven that you can give me those.”

Stiles feels his cheeks flush and wishes he could hide. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Luckily, Peter doesn’t seem to expect a response, pulling an ice cube from somewhere and tracing it over his lips. He licks at it, appreciating the moisture. His mouth’s gone dry.

He jerks in the ropes when the ice is rubbed teasingly over one nipple, and then the other. He doesn’t know how to describe it—it’s too intense to be good, but it doesn’t actually _hurt_ , either. He doesn’t enjoy it, would have thrown himself off the bed to get away from it if it weren’t for the ropes holding him in place, but he’s leaking under the washcloth.

Goosebumps break out all over when Peter drags his claws over the inside of his upper arm. He didn’t know that spot was so sensitive. The next moment, Peter’s fingertips—clawless, now—are skating up his throat, and he tips his head back, whining as images flash across his mind’s eye. Peter gripping his throat, squeezing gently. Peter’s teeth sinking in hard, leaving bruises where everyone will see them.

He doesn’t know what gives him away—if it’s his face or scent or some reaction he didn’t realize he had—but Peter chuckles. “Don’t worry, sweet boy. I’ll come back to that throat of yours. But first,” he pauses, and the now-tepid cloth covering his groin is whisked away.

He’s not sure what he expected, but an ice cube trailing up the underside of his cock to circle the head isn’t it. He jerks in the ropes, stomach muscles jumping as he tries to pull away. He lets out a high-pitched whine, and the ice disappears. “Colour?”

He opens his eyes, and stares at Peter. He doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t think he could handle it again, but he doesn’t want the scene to stop. More ice might be okay, as long as it’s not on his junk. Finally, he licks his lips and rasps, “Yellow?”

Peter’s free hand pets his inner thigh. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t—maybe?”

Peter nods. “Alright. We’ll come back to that some other time, then.” Peter stretches over him to drop the ice cube into one of the bowls on the dresser. But Stiles is taken off-guard when the next thing that happens is Peter’s tongue tracing the same path up his cock as the ice, and he pulls against his bindings for an entirely different reason.

“Sir!”

Peter smirks up at him, and then deliberately closes his lips around the head of Stiles’s erection, cheeks hollowing as he sucks. It’s sinfully good and Stiles is embarrassed by how close he is to coming. His hips twitch up before he remembers—he needs permission. “Permission to come, sir?”

“Good boy for remembering, but denied.”

He can’t help it—he whines. “Soon? Please?”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m not done playing with you, yet. You’re beautifully responsive. But if you don’t think you can hold off for me, let me know, and I’ll help you.”

He swallows, curious and hesitant and aroused in equal measure. “Help me how, sir?

He gets a hungry look. “For tonight, I’d probably roll a cock ring on you.”

“Yes, sir.” He resolves to be good. He doesn’t dislike cock rings, exactly, but they make his need to come even worse.

Peter smiles at him, something small and warm, and he melts a little, knowing he’s pleased his Sir. Peter drapes the washcloth back over his groin, and while it’s not quite as hot as before, it’s still warm, and wet, and it makes him moan as his hips stutter uselessly.

It’s as he’s breathing deep and trying to keep from coming too soon that he smells something. It’s warm, and earthy, and familiar somehow, though he can’t quite place it. He turns toward Peter. “Sir?”

Peter reaches out, dabbing something over his nipples. “It’s cinnamon oil, baby.”

He’s heard of it, but hasn’t tried it. Before he can work up a good worry, Peter goes on. “I have the washcloth and ice, remember. If you don’t like it, it’s easy enough to counteract.” Peter’s voice turns husky. “But I want you to give it a chance. I think you’ll like it.”

So he breathes out shakily, and nods. At first, it doesn’t feel like anything, and when it starts to tingle, he relaxes, because that doesn’t seem so bad. But then the tingle builds, gets hotter, and he’s squirming because it _burns_ but it doesn’t and he’s hard enough to pound nails and doesn’t understand _why_.

He doesn’t realize he’s started to cry until Sir sweeps a thumb across his lashes. “It’s alright, pretty. You’re okay.”

“Please,” he whimpers. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. More, less, to come, to be told to wait. “ _Please_.”

“Soon, sweetheart. You’re being so good for me, and I promise I’ll reward you for it. I just need you to wait a little longer for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He feels lips press against his forehead. “That’s my good boy.”

The cloth is peeled away, then, and he waits for a moment, expecting it to come back. Instead, Sir breathes hotly on his erection, only to lean back when he ruts up towards the teasing mouth. But rather feeling lips or tongue or even stubble, there’s the drag of something soft and almost tickly up his inner thigh. It’s nice, even if it’s definitely not what he wants right now, and he finds himself melting back into the bed.

“That’s it, sweetheart. I’ll get you there, you just have to lie back and let me.”

He hums, too deep now for words when his Sir doesn’t require them. The soft tickle strokes up his legs a few more times before stopping. He’s about to ask for more, but then Sir’s speaking. “Alright, baby, I need you to answer me, if you can. I’m going to massage these deliciously long legs of yours, and then I’m going to suck you until you come. I know you liked that earlier.” Stiles moans his agreement. “But I want to finger you while I do.”

He knows, kinda dimly, that they should’ve talked about this before. But he _wants_ that, wants Sir’s thick fingers opening him up and playing with his prostate. “Green,” he slurs.

“Thank you, sweet boy.”

He doesn’t know what Sir’s thanking him for, but he lets it go. He feels too good to ruin it. They’ll talk later. Right now is all about the burn of his nipples and the rope holding him in place, the insistent, angry throbbing in his cock and Sir’s promise that he gets to come soon.

He mewls when warm, oil-slick hands rub up and down his left calf before moving up to his thigh. It feels decadent, and then Sir’s thumbs are digging into the stubborn muscle deep in his calf, the one that’s always tight no matter how much he stretches. It hurts, kinda, but it’s a good hurt, and Sir rubs lightly over it after, soothing the pressure-pain.

His breath hitches when Sir does the same to his hamstring, because the twirling fingertips on his thighs aren’t relaxing—not when the shivery sensation goes straight to his cock, now lying in a tacky puddle on his stomach. But Sir hushes him, and makes him wait, massaging his right leg, starting at the calf the same way he had with the left. By the time Sir’s fingers are tracing circles on his thigh again, he’s making little hurt sounds, shaking with his need to come.

“You’ve been so, so good for me, baby. You ready for your reward?”

“Please?”

Sir moves for a moment, and Stiles hears him pulling on a glove. “Alright, baby. I’m going to take care of you. You can come whenever you’re ready.”

He sobs out something like a “thank you” when he feels a gloved fingertip slide through the oil and down to press against puckered skin. It slips inside easily—Stiles is subspacey goo, and he’s still a little loose from fucking himself on his dildo last night—and Sir groans, deep and hungry as Stiles nearly cries. It’s so good.

And then Sir slides a second finger inside him, and it gets even better. “Greedy boy,” he purrs, and the affection in it makes Stiles’s stomach warm.

Sir’s fingers are good, easing in and out, going deeper so slowly it’s nearly torture, and Stiles wonders if he could come from just this. Before he has time to find out, Sir’s licking at him, lapping up the pre-come he’s leaked all over himself, before closing his lips around the head of Stiles’s cock and swirling his tongue. Stiles pulls at the rope as he squirms, unable to chase or retreat or do anything but take what Sir gives him.

And what he’s given is a firm nudge to the prostate as Sir slowly draws his cock in deeper. Stiles wishes he could last longer—Sir’s mouth feels like heaven, and the constant pressure inside him is so good it nearly hurts, but he’s overwhelmed and overloaded and has been waiting too long to hold out anymore. He comes whimpering, fighting his bonds as his body tries to jackknife with the force of it. Sir sucks and massages him through it, only stopping when he’s boneless and panting, too out of breath to beg for Sir to stop, that it’s too much, now.

Even still, Sir pulls off his still-twitching dick slowly, like he doesn’t want to. “I’m proud of you for waiting, sweet boy.”

It feels good, hearing that, and he drifts for a while. He’s aware of Sir easing his fingers out and stripping off the glove, and of being untied, but Stiles lets it happen. Everything’s warm and heavy and good right now, and he wants to enjoy it as long as he can. Being gathered up in Sir’s arms and pulled in to snuggle makes it officially The Best Thing.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, drifting slowly back to coherence while half-sprawled over Peter. The first thing that filters through is that he’s getting cold. Not cold enough to want to move, not yet, not when Peter’s a cuddly furnace. The next thing he notices is that Peter . . . is hard, against the thigh Stiles has thrown over him. “Oh.”

The hand on his back slides up and into his hair. “You back with me, baby?”

“Mostly? I think.”

Stiles feels more than hears the little laugh Peter gives at that. “Take your time, sweetheart. There’s no rush.”

He spends the next few minutes becoming more and more aware, and his brain kicks into high gear. He has questions. There are things they need to talk about. He desperately needs a shower. Peter is hard. They’ll need to sit down and have some in-depth conversations and negotiations moving forward. (What did he do with his list of his hard and soft limits?) Peter is _hard_. Is this something that they’ll do often, or will it be an occasional thing to keep Stiles from crawling out of his own skin? What sex acts is Peter okay with? He feels like a terrible person, but he really wants to get dicked by his boyfriend sometimes. And, speaking of, _Peter is still hard_.

He takes a deep breath, and decides he’s being ridiculous. They’re two grown men, they both have dicks, this should not be so fucking difficult. “You, um.”

Peter doesn’t stop petting his hair. “Hmm?”

He swallows. “You’re hard.” His heart starts pounding. “Do you want—?”

“I appreciate the offer, sweetheart, but not this time. This was about you.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment. “But there’ll be times when, uh—”

“Oh, absolutely. As I said, I’m not much interested in sex for its own sake most of the time, but it’s not like orgasms are unpleasant. And I would definitely enjoy putting you on your knees and making you suck me. I’ve seen what you do to pen caps.”

Peter’s voice is warm and hungry, which goes a long way towards making him feel better. But—“Are you, uh. Okay? With—all this?” He waves a hand between the two of them.

Peter presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m not sure if you’re asking about the beautiful way you submitted for me, or the sex, but either way, the answer is yes.” He sighs. “I did mean what I said, that you can’t make me do something I don’t want to. And completely aside from the fact that I’ve known I was a Dom from my early twenties, the instinct to provide for packmates is strong. This is important to me, too, and if I’d known you were struggling, I wouldn’t have waited so long to bring it up.”

So, that’s a revelation. “So, um. Yeah, sorry about that. But what made you wait? Because, honestly, if it was something you wanted, then I figured you would have brought it up by now. You can be patient when you need to be, but you’re also a freaking hedonist.”

He gets a pinch to the butt for that. “I was trying to take it slow for your sake, brat. I thought you’d probably need me to.”

“Oh.” It’s the only response he has for a long minute. Then, “So, it won’t bother you to do this for me?”

The hand on his butt gives a little squeeze. “You still don’t understand, do you? Stiles, sweetheart, I don’t value intimacy with you in terms of the orgasms I get out of it. This, what we did tonight, it meant just as much to me as it did to you.”

He wraps his arm tighter around Peter’s ribs. “So we’re gonna be okay?”

Peter moves, suddenly, rolling until he’s pinned down under Peter’s bulk and staring into warm blue eyes. “We’ll be better than just ‘okay’, sweet boy.”

And then he’s being kissed, and he feels nothing but warm and safe and _loved_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on the [Tumblr](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/).


End file.
